


Forgotten: Second Chances

by HumsHappily



Series: Forgotten [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Viclock, Victor and Sherlock flashbacks, tarmac scene fixed, viclock breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mimicking the actions of years before, he stuck out a hand, John taking it carefully and shaking it. Forcing the emotions hidden below the surface to stay there, just out of sight, Sherlock stepped away, entering the plane, breaking inside as he sat.<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgotten: Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> This is the rework of my fic, "Forgotten: A Soft Blue Scarf, Slightly Bloodied", which can be found [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2856323) While that one had a Viclock happy ending, this one is a Johnlock happy ending. 
> 
> Enjoy your reading!

_**December 22rd, 1994- London** _

 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was up in a tree, with a bleeding ankle. His coat hung around him as he swore at the dog, jumping up and barking by the base of the tree. Not only was his ankle now injured, the damn dog was still there, waiting.

“Alabaster! ALABASTER! COME HERE!” The dog, a very, very dark black furred creature, stopped barking and picked up the dark red fabric it had dropped before taking off towards the voice.

“What is that? Drop boy! What the hell?”

Sherlock listened to the voice, -American, male, young- as it swore and clipped a leash onto the dog.

He made his way down the tree, pine sap staining his hands as he clambered down carefully.

Once he reached the bottom, he stood, gingerly putting weight on his foot as he winced.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, are you ok?” asked a voice behind him. It belonged to a tall youth, dark skinned, holding a leash.

“I’m fine, just injured. And your ridiculous dog is still chewing up my scarf.”

“Oh shit.” The man dropped to the ground, and attempted to pry open the jaws of the beast. “Sorry about this, he’s just really athletic, likes to play.”  Giving the scarf up as a lost cause, the man stood again. “How bad is your leg? Can I go fetch a cab or something for you?”

“That would be appreciated.” Sherlock gritted out, ankle throbbing.

“Oh. Victor, by the way. My name is Victor Trevor. We actually had chemistry together, not that you ever came to class,” the man said, removing his scarf from his neck and dropping to his knees. He wrapped the soft blue fabric around the wound, pulling it tight. Sherlock hissed slightly at the pain.

“Sherlock Holmes. The blood isn’t going to come out of that.” Sherlock said, as Victor stood and offered him his arm. He accepted, scowling and the trio made their way slowly to the road.

“No problem man, I don’t mind.”

Victor, surprisingly, did not keep up a steady stream of inane chatter, and when he threw up his arm to flag a cab, Sherlock was surprised to see the thin etching of a bumblebee tattooed upon his wrist.

Curious.

  
  


_**December 23rd, 1995- London** _

Smoke curling up from the tip of his cigarette, Sherlock was nude and sprawled across the black sheets of a king size bed. His pale skin was practically glowing -  coated with a slight sheen of sweat from earlier exertions.

“I’m going to be late now. I hope you know that.” Victor Trevor said, glancing in the mirror to the man laying in his bed. His hands worked at his neck, evening the sides of a deep green bowtie, before deftly twisting them together.

The other man just smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette. He blew the smoke up, ringing around his head. Victor stalked over to the bed, and leaned over his lover.

“You can still come to the party with me. We could stay over, have Christmas with my family.”

Each word was punctuated with a soft kiss pressed against the younger man’s skin.

“You’d bring me home to meet the rest of your family?”

“Why wouldn’t I? My brilliant, brilliant boyfriend. My darling love, my sweet honey-bee.”

“Don’t be condescending, Victor.”

“I’m not being condescending, my dear Holmes. I’m just telling the truth.”

Victor smiled and pushed off the bed to walk over the wardrobe. He pulled his shoes out from under the edge, bracing himself against the door as he slipped them on. Sherlock got up from the bed, wrapping the top sheet around him. Victor quirked an eyebrow at the movement.

When long pale arms came to wrap around him, adjusting his collar he laughed and leaned his head down to nip at the fingers. He received a bop on the nose as a response.

“I really am going to be late Sherlock. Father apparently has something important to tell me.”

Sherlock withdrew, going back to sit cross legged on the bed. He picked up his cigarette and flicked the ash off the tip.

“Victor…”  He said hesitantly.

“Will, I’d really rather you not deduce my father’s surprise.”

“I just think you should—“

“Sherlock, I mean it. Don’t.”

“Very well.” Sherlock said unfolding his lanky frame and walking over to the bathroom door.

“Will, please don’t pout.” Victor teasingly called in after him.

“I’m not pouting.”  The deep voice replied as water began to rattle through the pipes.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, get out here and give me a kiss goodbye.”

There was the sound of slight shuffling from the bathroom, before Sherlock’s naked torso popped out the door.

“You’re really lucky all nice girls like a soldier.”

Victor laughed. “I was only in the forces for two years and it’s still sailor.”

Sherlock just crooked a finger from the doorway. Victor shook his head as he walked over, straightening his jacket.  They shared a kiss, before Sherlock ducked back into the bathroom and Victor left, whistling as he exited the flat, walking into a light snowfall.

  
  


_**January 1st, 1996- London** _

__

“You knew didn’t you?”

Sherlock looked up from his textbook and blanched at the sight of the man in the door.

“I…”

“No. Don’t lie to me.” Victor said angrily, shoving his travel bag aside and pulling off his gloves.

“You asked me not to deduce. I can’t help that, but I didn’t tell you.” Sherlock said quietly, moving off the couch to flick on the kettle. He pulled two mugs from the cupboard and tossed a tea bag in each.

“My father is dying, Will.” Victor said, now coatless as he came into the kitchen and slumped down into a chair. Sherlock said nothing, handing him a mug of tea and pushing the sugar bowl across the table. He sat down and watched as Victor put his head in his hands.

“You know what this means. I’m going to have to leave London. I’m going to have to go back to America, take over the company there. I’m going to have to travel back and forth to India.”

“Victor, you don’t have to—”

“No, Sherlock, it isn’t a choice. It was never going to be a choice and you know that. I can’t leave him alone to do this. Not since mom died.” Victor met Sherlock’s eyes, the pain apparent. “Just….I don’t want to talk about it okay? I’m going to bed. Join me if you want.”

Victor disappeared into the bedroom. Sherlock slipped in after him once some time had passed. His long, cold arms wrapped around the other man, one hand coming up to brush the tears from his cheeks, the other stroking a bullet wound on the man’s right shoulder.

“Why does nothing ever work out for me, Will? Why does everything that makes me happy, that makes me good, end?” Victor choked out, shaking quietly. “I was so happy…”

Hours later, as the cloud smothered sun rose over the rooftops of London, Sherlock was still holding the other man. Victor had finally cried himself to sleep, and yet, Sherlock didn’t remove his arms.

“I love you.” He whispered into the dark room, to the sleeping man in his arms, to the rising sun.

And even though no one heard him, it felt like he had shouted it to the world.  Sherlock lay there, making a silent promise to hold Victor close until the man left him.

 

_ **April 18th, 1996- Heathrow Airport** _

The two men stood on the path in front of the airport, an arms length apart. A cab idled at the curb, waiting for Sherlock.

“I’ll let you know when I’m in town.” Victor said, careful eyes flickering up to meet Sherlock’s.

“Of course.” Sherlock replied stiffly. They both knew it was a lie, that Victor wouldn’t visit because it hurt too much. That he wouldn’t call, because it would be too hard to bear. That even if he did, Sherlock wouldn’t pick up, because he’d somehow know it was Victor and that the pain would be just as striking over the telephone line. And that at some point, even if they did call, the telephone would stop ringing.

“Maybe one day…” Victor trailed off, dropping what he was going to say. He went to move in for a hug, maybe even a kiss, but Sherlock stuck out a hand.

“Thank you for everything, Victor.”

Victor smiled sadly, and shook the hand offered to him, before dropping it gently.

“To the very best of times, Will.” He picked up his bag and walked to the door. As he reached the doorway, he turned and raised a hand in farewell. Sherlock stood at the car door and allowed a single breath to escape him as he raised his hand in response.

He waited until Victor disappeared into the building, before opening the door to the cab.

As the driver chattered on about her newborn granddaughter in the States, Sherlock stared out the window. He was breaking, but it wasn’t until he slipped his hands into his coat pocket and felt a scrap of soft blue fabric, bloodstains long gone, that he knew it.  His insides felt like he had swallowed shattered glass, like someone was boring a hole into him with a hot poker. His heart was crumbling into pieces - the stone of his soul clattering to the ground, echoing against the walls of his mind palace.

But, he would be fine. He would harden his heart and never see Victor again.  Never love again. He would slam the door on Victor, lock the memories behind a sheet of tungsten, tie them with chains of iron. He would make himself get through this.

After all, caring was not an advantage.

  
  
  


————————————

Years later, Sherlock Holmes would meet another soldier, with a broken soul and a wounded shoulder. He would befriend the man, piece him back together. Then, he would leave, for two years to protect three people he refused to admit he cared for. He would come back and earn one more bruise, as a well deserved fist hit his face. He would smile sadly as the other fell in love with a woman eerily like himself, all secrets and carefully controlled emotions. He would leave their wedding early, and smoke cigarette after cigarette in the moonlit garden, imagining how Victor would have enjoyed the wedding. How he would have smiled at him as he wrung a waltz from his violin. How they could have danced to some tawdry pop song or an even more foolish love ballad, while they gazed at each other, laughing at their shared past. Then Victor would have led him away, because Victor would have known, would have seen, just how much he cared for John Watson.

No matter. Victor was gone, and had been for eighteen years, not even a postcard between them.  He would be fine, but on John’s wedding day he would allow himself this one day of weakness. Allow himself to unlock the memories and sort through them one by one, remembering things he hadn’t been able to delete, no matter how hard he tried.  And he would keep an old blue scarf wrapped around his neck as a reminder of how caring wasn’t an advantage. To remind him of why he should never, ever admit that he had feelings for John Watson.

————————————

_ **Present Day** _

 

Of course, John’s marriage was not composed of tulips and roses. Mary’s secrets came to light and Sherlock discovered how many she was actually hiding, in the form of a bullet to the chest.

He healed, though another scar patterned his body. He found himself on the tarmac, back at Heathrow after a bullet flew from a gun he held, to protect the man he loved.

He found himself saying goodbye to a man he loved more than life itself, one more time, mimicking the words that had been said to him so many years before.

“To the very best of times, John.”

Mimicking the actions of years before, he stuck out a hand, John taking it carefully and shaking it. Forcing the emotions hidden below the surface to stay there, just out of sight, Sherlock stepped away, entering the plane, breaking inside as he sat. He stared out the window, the ticking of a distant pocket watch pounding in his head.

They hadn’t been in the air long before a phone rang, the steward bringing it to him.

Sherlock listened as Mycroft explained what had happened, feeling the plane turning around beneath him.

He exited the plane, and walked to John who was waiting on the tarmac for him. Mary was no longer in sight, John staring down at his palm, a wedding band glinting on his calloused palm.

John looked up at Sherlock, eyes red rimmed and questioning.

“She left as soon as she heard you were coming back. She handed me her ring and told me to stop lying to myself.” He said, hoarse with disbelief.

Sherlock had nothing to say, no way to fix this as John continued.

“The worst part is,” John coughed, clearing his throat and letting out a nervous chuckle, “the worst part is that I’m relieved. It’s over and I didn’t have to break my promise. But I’m not good at this sort of thing Sherlock. I’m not. And I..I don’t even know if you want—“

Sherlock moved forward, cutting John off as he gazed down at the smaller man, taking his hands.

“Sherlock is not a girl’s name.”

John just blinked, mouth hanging open as Sherlock continued.

“I only said that because I was afraid to tell you, afraid you would run and hide or hurt me. I’m human John, even though no one believes it. I am foolishly human and I allowed myself to fall in love with the one man I thought could never love me back. I love you, John Watson, and I have since the moment you let me borrow your mobile.

Sherlock stopped speaking then, all the words he had been meaning to say spilled. He waited for something, anything to happen. A slap to the face, perhaps. Or John, just turning on his heel and marching away, hands clenched in fists at his sides.

But instead, John said nothing, only raised up on the balls of his feet to press a crushing kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock in turn, ducked down, pressing back just as desperate. They continued to embrace each other, even as Mycroft pulled up in his black car to take them home. To bring them back to Baker Street.

————————————

And years later, after all was well, John still couldn’t stop blessing the good luck that had brought them together, not once, not twice, but three times.

And Sherlock? Well, Sherlock Holmes does not believe in soulmates or luck or God or superstition. He believes in only one thing, though he would never admit it. That thing?

Second chances.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


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